Don't Scream 2 Page 5

  I nodded and sobbed in his arms.

  In moments, the door swung open. A whirlwhind of chaos. Nurses, doctors, shouting and running. A nurse guided me into a gurney—Luke, into a separate one. "I can walk," I protested, feebly. The woman in blue-green scrubs shook her head.

  "Just in case."

  She patted me on the shoulder and began pushing me down the hallway. The wheels rolled underneath me, smoothly clicking across the tile. The white lights flashed above me, blindingly bright.

  Then I saw it.

  A shadow. Just a flicker, in the corner of my eye, right behind the nurse. I tried to turn my head towards it.

  A pulse of pain shot through my neck.

  "Rest, dear," the nurse cooed, as she pushed me forward.

  "Luke?" I whispered. He didn't hear me.

  Click-click-click.

  The gurney continued down the hallway. I turned towards the wall, watching the wallpaper. Blue and green triangles, overlapping and intersecting. Studying it helped my mind focus. Relax.

  You’re not in the car anymore. Whoever—whatever—that was is gone.

  "Just rest," the nurse said softly, brushing against my shoulder. Slap, slap, slap — her footsteps beat in my ears. I felt the strength drain from my body. In a few seconds, you'll be out of this hallway. In a room, with a doctor, a nurse. They'll fix you up, and...

  An acrid, rotten stench filled my nose.

  My eyes flew open.

  A silhouette. To the right of the gurney, matching our speed. I turned towards it—and it flit into my peripheral vision.

  Into my blind spot.

  I screamed. Over and over, I screamed. Patches of black shimmered in my vision, spreading until I could only see a pinprick of light from above.

  Then everything went black.

  ***

  I woke up in a hospital bed.

  Beside me, a nurse took my blood pressure, humming softly to herself. The cuff inflated and began to pinch.

  "Oh, you're up," she said. "Good."

  "Where's Luke?" I whipped around the room, which was empty except for the two of us. "Is he—"

  "He's in the next room," she said, ripping the cuff off. "And you both seem to be doing fine, now. Pressure's good, heart rate's good."

  "What happened?"

  "The strangest thing. You and your husband both suffered heart attacks—at the exact same time." She folded the cuff and replaced it in her cart. "If you hadn't been here, inside a hospital... I'm not sure you would've made it."

  Images of the silhouette flashed through my mind, and I shuddered.

  "I'm glad you're okay. The doctor will be in to see you, soon."

  She bustled back into the hallway, leaving me alone.

  We were discharged from the hospital later that day. Luke and I paid for a taxi back home, and spent hours just cuddling and enjoying each other's company. Suddenly, all the fighting, all the money troubles... they were insignificant.

  We were alive.

  And that's all that mattered.

  "What should we do with the car?" I asked, pulling a hand through his hair.

  "Junk it. Get one of those compactors to crush it up like a tin can."

  I laughed. "Sounds good to me."

  That's exactly what we did. That car is crushed up somewhere in a junkyard, now. Maybe whatever followed it was destroyed; or maybe it's trapped there. Either way—we're safe.

  With what little money remained, we bought a decades-old used SUV. Luke didn't complain once about the dents, the smell, or the sputtering noise it made when it climbed steep hills.

  Because we only had one requirement for our new car.

  No blind spot detector.

  HOW DO WE FALL ASLEEP?

  We never remember the exact moment we fall asleep.

  Sure, we remember the minutes leading up to that moment. Reciting our grocery list, listening to our spouse snore, replaying an embarrassing moment that happened ten years ago. But can you recall the exact moment you fell asleep last night?

  Or how it happened?

  I've always found this odd. We remember when we wake up, and sometimes, we even know the reason. A bad dream, a car honking outside.

  But how do we fall asleep?

  What happens in that magical moment, that pushes us into dreamland?

  Nobody knows. It's a mystery. A little black hole in our memory.

  That's why I decided to conduct a study.

  My husband thought I was weird. "So you're setting an alarm on your phone, to go off every five minutes, as you fall asleep. Why?"

  "Because it'll wake me up as I'm falling asleep."

  "I don't get it."

  "I want to know exactly when I fall asleep each night. And how."

  "I still don't get it."

  "I didn't expect you to."

  Eric raised an eyebrow at me. "Is that supposed to be some sort of insult?"

  "Maybe."

  He laughed. "Okay. You do your thing. But can you do it in the guest room? I don't want to wake up every five minutes."

  "Of course."

  That night, at midnight, I lay on the twin bed in the guest room. My alarms were set. I was ready.

  Brrring. The first alarm went off at 12:05. I was still pretty awake. The image that lingered in my mind was of our backyard—and what it would look like after the patio work was done.

  I rolled over and closed my eyes.

  Brrring. 12:10. Sleepier this time. Had I remembered to buy peas? I could... I could go to the store tomorrow, before my meeting...

  Brrring. Barely awake. Peas and patio tiles melted into each other. I wondered, if I planted some peas in the morning, would they be ready by dinnertime?

  Brrring.

  Bingo.

  Before I opened my eyes, I knew this was it. My thoughts were nonsense. Heavy fatigue immobilized my body. I was just barely asleep.

  But something felt... wrong. It was more than just fatigue keeping my body still. I felt pressure on my chest, as if a dresser had been pulled on top of it. And my forehead stung, as if someone was pinching it.

  My eyes flew open.

  A black shadow sat on my chest. Green eyes smoldered in the darkness. Its mouth—if you could call it that—was long and tubular. It connected to my forehead, making a wet, sucking noise.

  Get it off. Get it off!

  I thrashed against the creature. The weight on my chest shifted. Plop! The mouth popped off my forehead.

  At that same instant, the fog of sleep lifted. My thoughts were clear. My movements were nimble, quick.

  And the creature was gone.

  I ran down the hallway, my feet pounding against the carpet. "Eric!" I screamed, throwing his door open.

  He slept peacefully. Completely unaware of the invisible creature that sat on his chest. Feeding on his energy. His thoughts.

  I grabbed his shoulders and shook him awake. "Eric!" I screamed. "Wake up!"

  His eyes slowly fluttered open.

  "What's wrong?" he slurred, pulling himself up. I imagined the creature on top of him disengaging, causing him to wake up. Even though I couldn't see it—I knew it was there.

  I knew.

  "I saw it. The creature. It sits on our chest and sucks out our thoughts—our energy—like some sort of parasite—"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It causes sleep! As soon as it stopped, I woke up. It causes sleep! It's black and shadowy and—"

  "That sounds like sleep paralysis." He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a tight hug. "I'm so sorry. I know it can be terrifying. But it isn't real."

  "It wasn't sleep paralysis, Eric! It's—"

  "A nightmare, then. But don't worry. You're safe with me."

  He pulled me tighter, rocking me gently as if I were a child. Tears streamed down my face, as the pieces fit together in my mind.

  Sleep isn't some restorative function, encoded in our DNA. This creature—this thing—causes it. So it can feed on our thoughts, o
ur energy. Like some sort of parasite.

  A parasite that has existed since the beginning of time. Living with us, evolving with us, present in every country. Every home. Every bedroom.

  We just never see it.

  Because no one remembers how they fall asleep.

  SUPERSTITIOUS

  My grandmother is superstitious.

  It was only when lived with her for the summer that I realized how bad it had gotten. She had this huge freakin’ list taped to the fridge, with ten different “rules” she has to abide by.

  And she was making me follow them, too.

  When I opened my umbrella inside, she grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “Don’t open the umbrella inside! Didn’t you see the rules?”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought those rules were, uh, just for you.”

  “No. Everyone who lives here must obey the rules,” she said, in raspy whisper.

  It made me really sad. Once Grandma Jan was sharp as a needle—a grounded, logical person who occasionally bought into superstitions and the paranormal. A rabbit’s foot here, a penny there. Now it seemed, in her late 80s, that part of her had grown and grown until it subsumed everything else.

  With a heavy heart, I walked over to the fridge and read the rules.

  Do not spill salt.

  Do not open umbrellas inside.

  Do not put on clothes inside-out.

  Do not clip fingernails after dark.

  Do not break any mirrors.

  Mostly common superstitions, though the fingernail one was weird. I continued reading, with difficulty—her handwriting grew messier, more frenzied.

  Do not look in the mirror while wearing black.

  Do not whistle inside the house.

  If you wake up to see your bedroom door open, do not close it. Likewise, if you see the attic stairs pulled down, do not push them back up.

  Never let the refrigerator go empty. Always have enough to make an offering.

  Keep the curtains closed after 10 PM. Do not open them again until 6 AM.

  I wanted to tell her it was a whole lot of hogwash. But then I realized it was probably a bad idea to upset her at such an old age.

  “No problem, Grandma. I’ll follow the rules.”

  Yeah, right.

  She put me in the spare bedroom, down the hall from her. It was a small thing, furnished with only a twin bed and a tiny desk. But I couldn’t complain—it was either this, for free, or an apartment, for $1000+ a month.

  But of course, the money wasn’t the main reason I was here. My grandma probably wouldn’t be around much longer. According to my mom, she kept getting these random bruises, and doctors were worried she had a blood disorder. And some other stuff I couldn’t pronounce. I wanted to spend all the time I could with her—she was still my grandma. Still the one that comforted me when my first cat died, still the one who taught me how to bake the most amazing snickerdoodles.

  I loved her even if I had to put up with some weird-ass rules.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, as she passed by my room that night. “Sleep well, Chrissy. I love you.”

  “Goodnight, Grandma. I love you too.”

  I spent an hour on the internet, then put away my computer and fell asleep.

  ***

  I woke up a few hours later. Groaning in the darkness, I rolled over—to see my bedroom door open.

  I didn’t leave that open. I stared at it, half-asleep, too tired to get up and close it. Ah, well. According to the RULES, I can’t close it anyway.

  I snuggled up to my pillow and closed my eyes.

  That’s when I heard the whistling.

  A soft, melancholy tune. Coming from downstairs.

  Every muscle in my body froze. That was one of the rules. Wasn’t it? No whistling inside? …So why would Grandma be whistling downstairs? At—I glanced at the clock—freakin’ 2 AM?

  I pulled myself out of bed and walked into the hallway. The attic stairs had been pulled down. The darkness from the attic bled down into the hallway, along with the faint smell of rust and rotten food. Behind it, Grandma’s door hung open.

  I slowly descended the stairs. “Grandma?”

  The whistling stopped.

  When I entered the kitchen, it was empty. “Grandma? Where are you?”

  “Over here.”

  I looked up to see Grandma appear from the dark family room, wearing her floral nightdress. “Did I wake you, honey? I’m so sorry. I wanted to get some milk for my heartburn.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I just thought you weren’t supposed to whistle,” I said, with a chuckle. “According to the rules...”

  “You heard the whistling?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  I nodded.

  She grabbed my arm in a vice grip and led me back up the stairs. “Go back to sleep,” she commanded. Before I could reply, she disappeared back down the hallway—leaving my door open.

  ***

  “I think Grandma’s going crazy.”

  “Oh, are you talking about her rules?” Mom said on the other end. “I know they’re eccentric, but she gets really upset if you break them. And the doctor… he doesn’t want us to upset her, you know?”

  I sighed. “Isn’t it bad for her mental health?”

  “We all go a little crazy near the end. Uncle Finley though the government was tapping all his phones in his 90s. Great-Grandma Beasley always talked about some bat following her around. Just best to let sleeping dogs lie, at this point.”

  “But the rules are so weird, Mom. Like really freakin’ weird. And I woke up last night at 2 AM to find the attic stairs pulled down! I mean, what was she doing?”

  “You know what?” Mom said, a bit of anger tinging her voice. “She lives by herself in that secluded little house, 365 days a year. The only socialization she gets is her weekly trip to the grocery store, and monthly visits from your dad and me. Anyone would go a little nuts under those circumstances—even you. Lay off her, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  So I followed the rules. I was a good girl and didn’t open any umbrellas indoors, do any whistling, or break any mirrors. Sometimes I’d wake up to see my door open in the middle of the night, but I just ignored it and left it open. A few times, when I made my way to the bathroom, I whacked my head on the attic stairs that were pulled down. Once or twice I heard the whistling again, but I ignored that, too.

  Mom was right. So Grandma was a little crazy. We’re all a little crazy, aren’t we? Maybe time just scratches away all the normalcy we hide under, and we’re all batshit insane at the end.

  Things were good as I accepted that reality.

  Then Sunday happened.

  I was watching Netflix when I heard a clink—then a shout. I threw my laptop on the bed and ran down the stairs. “Grandma!” I yelled, fearing the worst. “Grandma, are you okay?”

  I found her standing over the kitchen table. Sobbing her eyes out. On the table was a salt-shaker, tipped over—next to a pile of spilled salt.

  “I didn’t mean—I just was cleaning up the plates and I—I—” She could barely make cohesive sentences through the sobs.

  “Sssh, Grandma, it’s okay! I’m going to clean it up, now.”

  I felt awful seeing Grandma like that. She was outright sobbing, her entire body shaking, as if she feared for her life. Over spilled salt.

  I brought my palm up to the table’s edge and brushed the salt into it with my other hand. I was so sad for Grandma, but I was also incredibly unnerved. Seeing someone you love, get so upset about something so trivial… it was disturbing.

  “It’s all clean. See?” I said, brushing off my hands. The salt rained down into the trash. “Nothing to worry about, Grandma.”

  Her sobs quieted, and she looked at me with red eyes. “But… he’ll know,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Even though you cleaned it up… he’ll still know.”

  “Who?”

  She looked at me. “The spirit of the house.”

&n
bsp; “The spirit of the house?” Despite how skeptical I was of ghosts, spirits, and everything paranormal, I felt a shiver go down my spine. Wasn’t it legend that ghosts and spirits didn’t like salt? That if you surrounded yourself with salt, you’d be protected from them? Propagating a superstition about spilling salt could be a ghost’s defense mechanism.

  If ghosts existed. Which they absolutely, positively did not.

  That night I barely slept a wink. I stared at my ceiling as the minutes ticked by. 2 AM, 3 AM, 4 AM.

  It was around 4:15 that I heard something stir.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Soft footsteps from overhead. From the attic. Every muscle in my body froze as I listened to the steps migrate towards Grandma’s end of the house.

  Then—creeeeaaaak—the metallic whine of the attic stairs being pulled down.

  Followed by footsteps.

  I forced myself out of bed. It took a huge, heaping serving of courage to do so, but I did. When I finally got to the door and pulled it open, the hallway was empty.

  Maybe the ghost is here, right now, staring at me. And I just don’t know it.

  No, no, shut up! Ghosts don’t exist, you idiot!

  The back of my neck prickled with the distinct, awful feeling of being watched. But rather than run back into my own room—believe me, I really wanted to—I ran over to check on Grandma. Her door hung open, as usual. “Grandma, are you okay?”

  Her bed was empty.

  “Grandma? Where are you?”

  That’s when I heard the soft sounds of sobbing below. I ran down the stairs, nearly slipping, and burst into the kitchen.

  Grandma stood in the kitchen.

  In front of her stood “the spirit of the house.”

  Not some dark, ethereal specter. Not some white, translucent ghost. A man, of flesh and blood. His brown beard was unkempt and messy, his blue eyes wild. He wore tattered clothes, black boots, and a yellow-toothed grin.

  “You’ve broken the rules of the house,” he whispered, stepping towards her. She flinched and took a step back.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she sobbed.